


Sepulcrum

by greenJeanKirstein



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Crying, Gen, M/M, Minor Character Death, Prokopenko never gets a funeral but he gets a burial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-06-01 07:01:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6505912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenJeanKirstein/pseuds/greenJeanKirstein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prokopenko never gets a funeral, but he gets a burial. The burial, needless to say, is very emotional for the person who feels quilty of causing Prokopenko's death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sepulcrum

**Author's Note:**

> _Sepulcrum (latin)_ \- a grave, burial place.

The only time Joseph Kavinsky ever felt remorse was when he hurt the ones he loved. That wasn't to say that he had many people he loved; just his four closest friends: Prokopenko, Swan, Skov and Jiang; all ready to die for him and to kill for him. Kavinsky would kill for them as well.

 

That's what he was, wasn't it? An monster. A killer.

 

Everyone who knew anything about Joseph Kavinsky, the king of the dark and the streets of Henrietta, knew that he was lethal and that he would never blink an eye when handed a gun; a choice to kill someone. He had steel nerves, boiling blood running inside of him, fueling him, his rage; adrenaline helping him not to regret breaking a few noses here and there, decking noisy little schoolboys with anything he could get his hand on.

 

So why was he here now, digging a hole in the middle of the night, crying - if anyone would ask, he would deny it - as he dropped the shovel and took a step back. Four feet deep, three feet long on one side and six feet on the other, the hole he had been digging. A grave.

Kavinsky inhaled, shakily drinking in the cold night's air as he wiped his eyes and then his nose. It was all his fault. All his fault, all his fault, all HIS fault... And the fault of those damn drugs he had dreamed up.

 

With another shaky breath, Kavinsky grabbed something from the ground and started dragging it towards the grave. It took him some time, but finally the thing fell into the grave. As Kavinsky took a step back, the moon in the sky illuminated the ground enough to bounce off the lifeless eyes of his best friend. The sound that left Kavinsky's mouth was both human and inhuman at once; a whimper, a miserable sob. It was all his fault...

 

Biting his lip to keep any other whimpers from leaving his mouth, Kavinsky leaned down, closing Prokopenko's eyes for the last time, smoothing his hair, fixing his snapback and pulling his shirt down to cover Prokopenko's chest and stomach. He climbed out of the grave, this time not trying to hide the tears that ran down his face as he made sure that what once had been Prokopenko now looked like a body truly laid to rest. The body of a boy that had lived, had laughed and had loved Kavinsky.

 

Digging the grave had been painful, laying Prokopenko to rest for the last time had been agonizing, but covering up the remnants of his best friend, the person he had loved the most and who had loved him the most, was excruciating. Every time he threw another shovel of soil and dirt, more and more tears ran down his cheeks, his neck, down to his chest, wetting his shirt. The shirt Prokopenko had made for him, and as Kavinsky looked down at it, gently touching the graphic white car, wiping away some tears that escaped the corners of his eyes as he remembered how giddy Prokopenko had been to see Kavinsky wear the shirt.

 

He covered Prokopenko's feet first, doing his best not to laugh as he covered the sneakers, the ones Prokopenko had stubbornly worn through the coldest winters and the warmest summers. Then the legs, strong legs that had carried Prokopenko around and that had been wrapped around his waist so many times he had lost count. Kavinsky had to look away as he covered Prokopenko's stomach and chest - places where Prokopenko had carried his love, his love for the food he had made for his friends and his heart that had limitless amount of affection for those closest to him. He could still remember how Prokopenko's heart beat faster and faster when they touched, could still feel Prokopenko's stomach shake as he laughed in awe whenever Kavinsky pulled something from his dreams.

 

The hardest part was covering the face. Prokopenko's facial expression had turned neutral after his life had ended and Kavinsky was glad for that. The expression Prokopenko had had moments before his death had been horrifying - he had been crying in fear, had begged for help and had then died, mouth open in a silent scream.

 

Kavinsky dropped the shovel and jumped into the grave, knowing that it would be the last time he looked at Prokopenko. Kavinsky cleaned the blood off of Prokopenko's face with the edge of his shirt and ran a finger over the boy's lips. They still felt soft to the touch, even if they were cold and lifeless and would never let Prokopenko's melodical voice flow through them again. Somehow it made Kavinsky sob again. They hadn't gotten the chance to say goodbye.

 

"I'm sorry. It's my fault," Kavinsky whispered, pressing a kiss against Prokopenko's cold forehead. "It's my fault... It's me who should be in this grave," His voice broke and he sobbed, covering Prokopenko's face with the dirt just like he had covered him with a blanket on cold winter nights. And that was it. Prokopenko had been laid to rest. His burial had been as peaceful as his death had been gruesome.

 

Kavinsky sat down next to the grave, wrapping his arms around his knees. He needed some time, he needed a shower, he needed to fix this, he needed... He needed Prokopenko.

 

Another helpless cry escaped his mouth, and the forest swallowed it, offering him comfort with its darkness and its serenity. The consolation from the nature was not enough. It never had been for Kavinsky who had always been more drawn to the noise and alive, breathing people.

 

He wiped away the last of his tears and his snot, cleaned himself with his shirt as much as possible and then tossed the ruined cloth aside. He would pick it up later. He would fix everything. And he would start with getting Prokopenko back.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [If anyone needs me, I'll be crying on tumblr](vicvandal.tumblr.com)


End file.
